


patchwork

by yehetno



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Cybernetics, M/M, eunwoo being a good friend, internalized ableism, lots of sullenness, not sure that mood to tag it as, oy mj is florty af, tagging will improve as we go, using the word prosthetic a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehetno/pseuds/yehetno
Summary: Jinwoo, still adjusting to his integrated prosthetics, does everything he is supposed to.  He diligently attends appointments, goes to group, and even volunteers at a community garden.  He's slowly trying to pick up the pieces despite everything.Then, Kim Myungjun breaks into his life, determined to turn that frown upside down.





	1. flower crown

**Author's Note:**

> so, i don't know how many chapters this is going to be. but i've been itching to post something to ao3, and this idea has been bouncing around my head for a while. please bear with me and my typos!

Something about his synthetic skin bothers him.  Visually, it is a flawless imitation of human skin; a stranger would not be able to tell where Jinwoo ends and the machinery begins.  However, touching it stirs up feelings of unease; it is just not right.  He cannot quite place exactly what is off.  It might be too rubbery or too smooth, as though an entire limb failed to go through the pains and tribulations of life.  The fake freckles and hair, even the simulated bumps, it all gives off the illusion of realness, but it fails to belong and mesh into Jinwoo's life.

He knows that he should be thankful to the doctors and medical engineers for replacing the arm and leg that he lost.  Thinking about the technology stupefies him sometimes, scares him sometimes too.  The synthetic skin has nerves, and through some miracle of science, he can feel what his prosthetic limbs feel.  And yet, he has the occasional, impossible phantom itch.  His prosthetics do not generate their own sensations, his doctors said as much. The small annoyances, like a limb becoming numb or the illusion of a fly on his arm, those were lost with the amputations.

There is a distinct absence of pain that bothers him.  Bland sensations are there, merely registering pressure without the associated hurt that should accompany it.  He doesn’t know if he is burning his hand or if a door handle is freezing.  The technology isn’t advanced enough to tell him that a person is touching him as opposed to a stick.  The synthetic nerves are a poor imitation of what his life once was.

Perhaps what bothers him the most _is_ the imitation of flesh and blood. 

As bothersome and wrong as it may feel, the machinery is part of his world; it’s small flame at the center of the universe, slowly burning and growing, set to consume every thought in its path.  Making a broken boy whole again is a rather invasive process, lots of wires and hardware and a million and one appointments on the horizon.  It’s always on his mind; he keeps expecting that suddenly he’ll feel whole again and the promised illusion of realness will come to fruition.  He thinks he almost might prefer having no prosthetics at all to the delusion of being a perfectly functional human.  It would be easier than keeping up this exhausting façade. 

His façade is a many-faceted thing.  He pretends that he is not different than he used to be.  He pretends that his brand-new, factory fresh limbs work wonderfully.  He pretends that he doesn’t have nightmares.  He pretends, he pretends, he _pretends._   How can he not?  He has two intricate hunks of metal connected to wires wound around his spine, feeding information into his brain about vague sensations; he cannot help but pretend that all is well.

He has a diagnostic tomorrow.

Jinwoo hates diagnostics. They peel back the synthetic skin and tinker around, sending small jolts of electricity through Jinwoo’s body.  A tech will ask questions, deliberate and short, and Jinwoo will act as though his skin isn’t crawling because his prosthetics, no matter how publicly controversial, are part of some kid’s thesis on artificial nerves and bettering a detested field.

Maybe Jinwoo also dreads going to group.  Just his luck, he supposes, that his diagnostic and this month’s group meeting coincide.  A little heart to heart session with a handful of other test subjects.  One kid jokingly calls it Cyborgs Anonymous.  Sanha.  Jinwoo figures that Sanha is a bright kid, smart and all those things that always seem just out of Jinwoo’s grasp.  Jinwoo isn’t quite sure which part of Sanha’s body is metal and plastic; it’s not required to divulge that sort of thing.  The jury is still out on how he feels about group; maybe if the group leader tries to get him to talk again, he’ll have more solid feelings on the whole matter.  He will still have to go, of course, albeit begrudgingly.  Naturally, it is compulsory.  All of it is, the appointments and group, and it will be a part of his life for the rest of his days because he had the great misfortunate to lose limbs and have them replaced with evolving technology. 

Tomorrow will be an ordeal.

He should get a good night’s rest, slip into bed early enough to get a solid six hours in and wake up in time for a nice shower and strong cup of joe. 

Jinwoo manages to launch himself off of the couch, throwing the afghan onto the floor in a ball and stiffly walking to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  His steps fall unevenly today; his right leg, his top of the line, high quality, replacement leg isn’t quite cooperating.  The knee isn’t bending enough for the process to be as smooth as it normally is.  One step is light and the other laboriously tries to catch up with a heavier thud. 

 Another thing to report during his diagnostic.

 

//

 

With an ache in his good knee and what he can only assume in a dead wire in the other, Jinwoo hobbles toward the small medical clinic with a heavy reliance on his cane.  Whenever something glitches in one of his prosthetic limbs, he has to drag the full weight of it along; so, his progression is much slower than he’d like it to be.

The lobby of the clinic is small; there’s barely any indication at all that it provides medical services in the signage.  Jinwoo supposes because the aforementioned medical services are targeted at people with “integrated systems”, of which Jinwoo is one.  Given the neighborhood, there would likely be backlash if they heavily advertised their services.  His frequent appointments would be met with protests and a discriminatory slur or two thrown in for good measure.

The receptionist recognizes him, but given the low foot traffic at the clinic and the frequency of Jinwoo’s visits, it does not surprise him that the receptionist merely indicates that he should settle into a seat.  Jinwoo sinks into the first seat he lays his eyes, feeling a small comfort in being off of his feet.  He holds his cane in a loose fist; one too many times has he dropped his cane and watched it roll just far enough of reach for retrieving it to be a hassle. 

The cane is a gift from Dongmin, one of the few people who didn’t wall up after the amputation and subsequent restoration of his limbs.  He still remembers the sad look that Dongmin gave him when Jinwoo awoke from his surgery.  The handcrafted cane has a pleasant weight to it, and Jinwoo has no fear that it will snap if he puts most of his weight on the walking aid.

He massages his aching knee and attempts to weed out the annoyance souring his mood.  His doctor is nice enough, and so is the technician who fixes the hardware.  (Jinwoo has never met any of the people in charge of software development; the technician goes over interface improvement questions with him and sends his feedback to what Jinwoo assumes are some shadowy corporate offices where people in cubicles tune coding to whatever they think is the next most optimal version.)

“Park Jinwoo,” a voice calls out, pulling Jinwoo away from his thoughts.  He sees Dr. Min standing in front of him with a thick manila folder in his hands.  “I see you brought your cane today.”

Jinwoo plants the cane on the carpeted floor and uses the leverage to stand up.  “Leg’s glitching,” he replies in a clipped tone.

Dr. Min nods, tapping Jinwoo’s shoulder with the folder as he reflexively smiles, “We’ll get that fixed for you.” 

He motions for Jinwoo to follow him back to an examination room and proceeds to make small talk; Jinwoo thinks that the doctor’s attempts to connect with him are rather shallow.  He asks how Jinwoo is doing and if he’s eating well, running through surface level health check-ins.  He ushers Jinwoo into the small room, “I’ll give you a little time to change into the gown, and then we’ll make sure that your prosthetics are properly functioning—aside from your leg of course—and that your body is adjusting to them well.”

He leaves Jinwoo alone, and Jinwoo changes into the thin yet stiff gown, folding his clothes and setting them on the chair in the corner.  He hates limb examination the most out of everything that happens during these appointments.  It puts him off his center when he sees the intricate machinery inside of his leg, the coils and wires, especially since the technician turns off the power to the synthetic nerves.  Jinwoo would almost prefer it if they left it on, at least then he wouldn’t feel like so many things are out of his control.

Dr. Min knocks on the door and comes in after Jinwoo affirms that he isn’t in a compromised position.  The doctor does the usual things, takes Jinwoo’s blood pressure, listens to his heartbeat, and tests the reflexes of his patellar tendon in his left knee, all of the things that Jinwoo did at a doctor’s visit before his life went sideways.  Then, with cold, gloved fingers, Dr. Min feels the skin at the seams of his flesh and prosthetics, asking Jinwoo if he can feel the sensation on his real and synthetic skin.  He has Jinwoo stretch out both of his arms and applies a light pressure to his left arm, feeling down the length of his prosthetic to ensure that all of the synth nerves are still viable.  He bends the joints of the prosthetics, deeming Jinwoo’s arm to be fine and confirming the malfunction in his leg.

With another attempt at a comforting smile, Dr. Min strips off his gloves and pitches them into the garbage.  “Well, you seem to be doing great physically.  I’ll get Soohyun in here, and she’ll check the wiring for your prosthetics.  You are still going to group, yes?”

Jinwoo nods. 

“Alright.  I’ll see you in a month, Mr. Park,” Dr. Min says, waving goodbye as he exits the small room.

He exhales deeply, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the wound-up tension.  As nice as Dr. Min seems, something about him puts Jinwoo off.  He always leaves Jinwoo feeling slightly dejected, as though acclimation to his circumstances is impossible.

Soohyun knocks gently as she always does.  She greets Jinwoo with a genuinely warm smile and a soft, “Hello, Mr. Jinwoo.”

She sets down a tray of various potential replacement parts.  She pulls the electrical intervention station out of its corner.  “I’m going to open the arm panel and disable the synthetic nerve network,” she says, narrating every step of her process.  She quietly talks her way through it, and Jinwoo winces at the sensation of his synthetic skin being peeled back; it’s not painful, it’s just odd to watch her expose the wiring and metal framework.

Once the nerves are disabled, Jinwoo looks away.  It never feels right to watch Soohyun work.  She chirps softly when she finds the misbehaving hardware and assures Jinwoo that it’s a quick fix and they’ll be out of here in no time at all.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her extract a long wire with a light grey insulation coat.  She connects a new on in a matter moments and asks Jinwoo to straighten and flex his knee to test the connection.  He does it a few times, and she softly claps her well-manicured hands with a bright smile.  “Done,” she declares.  Before she puts him back together, she runs through their standard series of diagnostic tests to affirm that nothing else needs replacing.  She hums happily when the results turn up all positive.  She closes with saying, “Do remember that the synthetic skin is self-healing.  If the seam doesn’t disappear within 36 hours, please contact us.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Jinwoo,” Soohyun bows and exits without saying anything else.

Jinwoo hops back to his feet and changes back into his normal clothes, relieved that his prosthetic knee is working once again.

 

//

 

At the recommendation of the group therapist, Jinwoo is supposed to devote at least five hours a week to a cause of his choice.  Apparently, Jinwoo is withdrawn and engaging in a community activity in a charitable manner has the potential to help him rebuild his social skills by connecting with others over a mutual interest.

Though Jinwoo sees little point in trying to reconnect with a world that will reject him regardless, he does his group homework.  He volunteers at a community garden; the director says he always needs volunteers regardless of skill level.  It is mostly peaceful work, and the food grown is distributed to low-income families and shelters throughout the city with the exception of the select few that are sold to keep the gardens running.

Jinwoo finds that today’s task sends him into the greenhouse where the flowering plants are grown.  He is given a laminated information sheet, assigning him to a “marketable” section of flowers that are sold to florists with information on how to water them properly.  He picks up the spray bottle and weaves his way through the plants, constantly referencing his information sheet.

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind him, tapping his right shoulder lightly.

Jinwoo turns around and sees a man with a camera hanging from his neck and a wide smile.  He has rich brown hair, bright eyes, and distinctly pink lips; if Jinwoo was a different person, a more open one, he might blush and make a cheesy joke about this man falling from heaven.  He can feel his brow furrow ever so slightly as he stares at this stranger.

After a moment of standing there, the man clears his throat and amps up his already bright smile.  He holds out an intricately woven flower crown with yellow gerbera daisies, forget-me-nots, and baby’s breath.  “I’m taking promotional pictures for the garden, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind modeling for one?” 

“No,” Jinwoo says, intending to decline being photographed.  However, his response elicits a happy chirp from the photographer who steps forward and deliberately crowns him with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he says.

Jinwoo begins to clarify himself, but the man grabs a hold of his camera and fiddles with it.  His words get caught in his throat, stuck in an exhale that seems doesn’t want to escape from his lungs.  He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands which still have the spray bottle and information sheet in them.

The photographer clears his throat and holds up his camera, squeezing one eye shut to look through the viewfinder. “Oh,” he mumbles and pulls the camera away from his face, “I never introduced myself.  I’m Myungjun, and you are?” He sticks out his hand toward Jinwoo.

Jinwoo stares at the outstretched hand for a moment, looks at his full hands, and shifts his gaze toward Myungjun’s face.  He stands quietly and watches Myungjun’s expression contort into an awkward and unsure grimace.  He brings his outstretched hand back to his side in a series of jerky movements.

Myungjun closes his eyes and takes a measured breath, opening his eyes once more and shifting his expression back into a confident and bright one.  He brings the camera back to face and says, “Please continue your work and I’ll take some candid photos.”

“Why do I have a flower crown?” Jinwoo asks, voice a little more abrasive than he intends.

Myungjun moves the camera down ever so slightly, “To present the community gardens in a fresh manner.  I find that flower crowns have a way of bringing out the softness in everyone.”

Jinwoo harrumphs and shakes his head, misting the orchid in front of him with the sprayer.

“Um, sir…” 

Jinwoo looks over at Myungjun with a raised eyebrow, “Jinwoo.”

With a happy exhale, Myungjun smiles, “Oh, okay, _Jinwoo_ , could you maybe not frown?  It, um, well, if I can be frank with you, it looks like you’re disappointed in the plant.”

“That’s my neutral expression.” 

Myungjun giggles nervously, “Well, maybe you could smile?  And look like it doesn’t kill you to be in the garden?”

Jinwoo feels his mood souring, “Candid photos aren’t supposed to be art directed.”

Myungjun’s tentative friendly expression is quickly replaced by a professional neutral smile.  “Alright.”

Jinwoo resumes his work and listens to the soft shutter clicks from Myungjun’s camera.  He cannot help but feel slightly grated; he is not exactly a naturally happy person and this _Myungjun_ disrupting his moment of peace to take unwelcome photos.

“Thank you, Jinwoo.  Keep working hard and have a wonderful day,” Myungjun says after the last click of the shutter.  He begins to recede into a different section of the greenhouse.

“What about the flower crown?” Jinwoo calls out.

Myungjun whips around, “Keep it.  It’s yours now.  I would recommend wearing it around the house; it makes you feel like a royal fairy.”

“I don’t…” Jinwoo trails off, unsure of how to clearly articulate how ridiculous it sounds to him.  He can’t imagine doing something just to make himself feel nice, doing something without any real purpose but generating a positive feeling in himself.

Myungjun offers him another wide smile, and Jinwoo loses track of the disparaging thought.  “Hopefully we’ll meet again, Jinwoo.  I’ll try to get your photos sent to you.”

Jinwoo ends up nodding, letting Myungjun slip away.  It leaves Jinwoo in a daze; the ruffle of butterfly wings in his stomach indicate that for the first time in a while he has something to look forward to.  He brings his hand up to his head, feeling the soft petals of his crown with his right hand.  

He clears his throat and lets a minuscule amount of annoyance drip down his spine.  His first instinct when someone arouses his long-dormant feelings is to respond in anger.  He gawks at the audacity of Myungjun, a practical stranger, to take photos of him and basically tell him that he doesn’t seem chipper enough to be a model.  He scoffs and steels himself; when he sees Myungjun next, if he sees him again at all, his words won’t fail him and he’ll express his displeasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas!!! again, bear with me, i know that this chapter is mostly exposition, and my writing style makes some of it feel pointless..
> 
> hit me up on [ tumblr ](http://yehetno.tumblr.com)
> 
> comment/kudos/bookmark. any and all feedback is welcome :) i appreciate that you've made it this far.


	2. competing sensations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What does it mean?"
> 
> That's not what he wants to ask. He should ask, "Does it mean what I want it to mean?"
> 
> But that begs the question: "What do I want it to mean?"

Jinwoo almost throws away the flower crown.  

Almost. 

He has his foot on the pedal attached to the hinge of his trashcan’s lid and has the crown in one hand, dangling it over the mouth of the can with an unfamiliar hesitancy.  He should be pragmatic.  He has no practical reason to keep a glorified headband.  The flowers will wilt and wither; it will become too fragile to handle without the petals breaking apart and the thin stems snapping under slight pressure.

However, something compels him to keep it.  Flowers, he decides, pulling his hand and crown away from the bin, flowers are the reason he’ll keep it.  He doesn’t want it because there’s a positive emotion associated with its entry into his possession; no, Jinwoo’s never-ending affinity for flowers results in his sparing of this _thing_.  The cultivation of flowers is an honest process: water, sunlight, soil, and attention. The flowers that were sacrificed for this headpiece should be treated with respect, therefore, that is what Jinwoo intends to do.

Jinwoo sets it on the counter, gently prodding a still fresh petal with his finger.  The sensation doesn’t register.  Disappointment stings in Jinwoo’s eyes; he almost forgot again.  He hates his new normal; partial functionality is the worst of both worlds.  Hurrah, Jinwoo can walk and talk and doesn’t need to ask for help to open a jar of pickles, but the small sensations, the ones that shade and flavor life, are absent.  They are reduced down to whether or not there is enough pressure to activate a sensor.  He feels broken, he just doesn’t _look_ broken.

He sighs heavily, deciding to take a shower before heading out to group.  There is not much time to do anything else given the tight window between the end of volunteering and the beginning of the group session.  He picks the flower crown back up and tows it to his bedroom; if he leaves it on the counter, Dongmin will ask.   (Dongmin takes an avid interest in Jinwoo’s social life and attempts to push Jinwoo back out into the world, so offering an explanation of how he got it would give Dongmin an opportunity to harass Jinwoo into meeting new people.)

Jinwoo remembers a time when showers were not an ordeal.  (He tells himself it’s pointless to lament on days long past, pointless to wish things are different. However, he rarely listens to his own inner wisdom and wants what he can never have.)

He goes through his pre-shower/pre-bath check, pressing at the seams of his prosthetics to ensure that they’re sealed tightly.  He examines his synthetic skin, frowning that it hasn’t pulled itself back together yet.  He opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out a tube of sealant paste that will briefly protect the intricate machinery in his limbs from any potential seepage.  He forgot to do that once, and it’s an experience he is far from eager to repeat.

He roughly spreads the white paste over areas of potential weakness on his arm and leg.  He wonders if someday in the far-off future the task will be a naturally integrated part of his routine, perhaps it will even be soothing to apply it.

Jinwoo slides into the shower, hyperaware of the tentative integrity of his hardware.  The beads of water beat down on his skin with a sharp heat, contrasting the consistently pinging pressure against his synthetic skin.  The competing sensations make Jinwoo’s stomach churn; all it does is remind him that there are wires running up his spine.  Half of his body winces in pain from the too-hot water; it satisfies Jinwoo somewhat that he can still own this much of his bodily sensations, even if it is painful.

Jinwoo keeps his shower short, leaving no time for shower thoughts or any contemplation on his day.  It is a bare bones shower routine of shampooing his hair and scrubbing down his body with two different kinds of soap, one recommended for his synthetic skin and the other for the rest of his body.

He towel-dries his hair; there is no one in his group that he is trying to impress. Besides, he and Sanha usually have a brief conversation before the start of group.  Sanha is one of the people Jinwoo does more than tolerate. 

He takes the time to wipe off the sealant to let his synthetic skin heal as fast as possible.  He deliberately pats down the synthetic skin, removing excess moisture while testing out the synthetic nerve network to ensure it’s still functioning properly.  His synthetic skin might bother him, but technically, it belongs to some faceless scientist.  Jinwoo has to take care of it regardless of how he abhors it.

He slips into comfortable clothes and assembles his wallet and keys while thinking of a positive experience to share during group.

 

//

 

Sanha sits on the bench, knees bouncing with excess energy as he rhythmically opens and closes his lighter.  His hair is blue today; it’s a dark blue that is a shade or two too light to be navy.  Jinwoo can practically feel the nervous energy from down the street.  He reads tension in Sanha’s shoulders as he approaches.  When he finally settles into the open seat beside Sanha, he can see the cuffs of Sanha’s sweatshirt are balled into Sanha’s hands. 

“What has you all wound up?” Jinwoo asks, leaning against the cold metal backing of the bench.

Sanha pockets his lighter and yanks his fingers through his hair.  His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he quietly says, “A boy.”

“A boy?”

Sanha nods and picks at his thumbnail, “He said he liked my hair.  Thinks that it’s _cool_.”

Jinwoo takes in a deep breath and looks over Sanha’s hair once again.  Given that Sanha dyes his hair himself, it looks good and even.  Sometimes Jinwoo relates to Sanha so much that it hurts.  He remembers being a teenager-bordering-on-young-adult and the difficulties he had embracing himself.  Decoding every compliment to deduce its true meaning, how he was meant to interpret it, was an exhausting task when he barely had confidence in himself.  Perhaps the reason Sanha trusts Jinwoo, puts so much faith in his words and wisdom, is because Jinwoo offers a positive affirmation of Sanha’s reality. 

The best response Jinwoo can muster is a solid pat on the back.  Sanha’s shoulders relax slightly as he exhales deeply, hiding his face in his hands. “What does it mean?” he mumbles through his hands with defeat lacing his breath.  He turns his face toward Jinwoo to offer a look of sad yet hopeful confusion.

“That he likes your hair,” Jinwoo quietly replies.  He does not want to give Sanha undue hope; he has been down that avenue only to have his soul crushed one too many times to inflict that sort of pain on Sanha.

Sanha pulls out his phone and checks the time.  He flashes his phone display toward Jinwoo and jerks his head toward the building entrance. 

Jinwoo frowns, but he supposes it is an inevitability that group must begin.  They shuffle into the room, and Jinwoo notes that three of the other members of the support group have already arrived, meaning the only other attendees that are soon to arrive are the psychologist, who insists upon being addressed only as Jimin, and Dahyun, who generally waits until the last second to stroll in. 

The creaky folding chairs set up in a circle have seen better days.  The fabric of the thin cushions is a desaturated blue and have a coffee stain here and there.  Jinwoo settles into an open one, opting to skip out on the free snacks today. 

When Jimin enters, the rest of the group pulls away from the snack table to find a seat. (Dahyun is late, surprising no one.)

The meeting goes as well as it can.  There’s an emotional sharing piece, a sort of affirmation sharing moment that is designed to encourage acceptance and self-love.  Jimin manages to corner Jinwoo into speaking about his “positive progress”, asking him to share an instance that made his day.  In as few words as he can manage, he tells the group that someone asked him to model for photos, bending the truth to play up the positivity of his interaction with Myungjun.

After spending an hour and a half in group, Jimin checks his watch and thanks everyone for being open before dismissing them.  A tension that always builds during group sessions releases in Jinwoo’s stomach, easing him out of a state of anxiety.  He needs to go for a walk or jog, just _any_ form of exercise that will purge the rest of his stress from his muscles.

Sanha waves at him as he leaves without mingling with anyone else.  He doesn’t understand why people always stay behind to chat, but as it is not requisite and Sanha has his phone number anyway, Jinwoo slips out mostly unnoticed. Jimin probably wants a word with him, however, Jinwoo does not have the patience to wait today. 

Without any real aim, Jinwoo heads in the general direction of his apartment.  It is a healthy walk back to his home; luckily enough, he chose to ride the bus to group today, so walking home at his own pace will provide him release.  The last rays of sunlight have disappeared behind the cityscape; the sky is transitioning from a deep blue into the inky black of night, prompting the soft yellow street lights to blink on. 

Jinwoo loves walking when it’s cold outside. Cold air bites at his skin, reminding him of his oft-forgotten warm blood.  As uncomfortable as it might be to shiver, jaw trembling with clouds of breath floating away, the cold makes Jinwoo appreciate his beating heart.

The chill permeates his lungs, and it feels like taking his first breath again.  There’s a magic in cold air; it seems to draw out the negativity that rests hot in his chest.  A calmness settles over Jinwoo, and he cards his fingers through his hair.  He revels in the clarity that a stroll through cold gives him.  He seldom has the opportunity to enjoy himself; it is especially freeing since no one is around to make sure that Jinwoo is a-okay.  Jinwoo can just _be_ without needing to examine anything. 

His mind strays back to the community gardens. He wonders what compelled Myungjun to ask him, of all the volunteers, if he could be used in promotional materials.  It has been months since Jinwoo made any sort of effort to appear approachable, not since he embraced a cynical worldview. There must have been a distinct lack of available volunteers, or maybe, someone rejected Myungjun’s request.

Jinwoo laughs to himself and shakes his head; he imagines the horror that might ruin Myungjun’s expression if he knew about Jinwoo’s prosthetics.  Even someone with a bright smile and warm demeanor could wince away from Jinwoo in disgust.  People just think that it’s wrong and that Jinwoo and all the cripples like him are asking too much and their greed will result in humanity’s downfall.  He is either helping bring on sentient dooms-day computers or enabling the uber-wealthy to buy immortality.

Maybe he should track Myungjun down and see what kind of man he truly is.  

No, Jinwoo won’t do that.  He isn’t masochistic; he doesn’t like it when people push him away in disgust.  (Maybe, just maybe, he will file Myungjun away under good memories, think of him as someone who, if he’d had any courage left, might have been a part of his story.)

His phone buzzes in his pocket.  Pulling it out, Dongmin’s name runs across the screen.  He frowns as he reads through the quick explanation of how he has an impromptu business dinner, so he clearly cannot make it to their weekly dinner.  It includes an apology and a vague promise that Dongmin “will make it up to him”. 

It brings down his mood.  He understands, but a hollow loneliness takes root in his chest. 

Jinwoo tries to shrug it off and continues to walk.  He takes a longer route home, telling himself that if he goes home immediately, it will only serve to embitter him toward Dongmin.

He finds himself at a bakery of all places.  It is a chain store that specializes in bread but has a wide variety of sweets for him to choose from.  He ends up ordering a slice of cheesecake and a small black coffee.  For whatever reason, the young woman behind the register gives him a small rectangular pager, inviting him to take a seat while she prepares his order.  He looks around the mostly empty store with slight bewilderment.

He settles into a wooden chair at a table near the serving bar and drums his fingers against the clean plastic table top.  His prosthetic hand makes a much heavier and unified sound; the fake nails on the hand do not make a distinct sound from the synthetic skin covered metal.  The fingers on his right hand hit inconsistent notes, and a soft, annoying pain hits against his fingernails.

“Mr. Jinwoo?” A light voice asks tentatively.

The uncertainty in the voice confuses Jinwoo, and when he turns to face it, he sees Myungjun.  Obviously, Myungjun is dressed differently, donning a mint green sweater and a pair of glasses.  Though his camera is nowhere to be found, that air of confidence still surrounds Myungjun.  Myungjun registers that it is, in fact, Jinwoo, and a toothy smile blooms across his face.

He waves as if he is across the room despite being three feet away from Jinwoo.  He hitches the bag slung over his shoulder and hurries around the partition to get to Jinwoo’s table, sitting down without invitation.  He seems to do that a lot, Jinwoo notes, he just invites himself to take pictures and to sit with Jinwoo like they have known each other for eons.

Jinwoo instinctively withdraws his prosthetic hand.  Myungjun doesn’t know and won’t be able to tell; nevertheless, Jinwoo feels safer with his hands in his lap than out in front of Myungjun where they can be scrutinized.

“It is _wonderful_ to see you again, Jinwoo,” Myungjun says, setting down a pager of his own.

For the second time in Myungjun’s presence, Jinwoo’s greeting gets stuck in a stubborn breath.  However, Myungjun seems unfazed and chatters right on without waiting for Jinwoo to reciprocate his sentiment.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon!  It has hardly been half a day since we saw each other last.  I’ve never seen you here before, do you come here often?" 

Jinwoo shakes his head and murmurs, “No, I don’t.”

Myungjun’s lips quirk into a brief frown; it almost reads as disappointment. However, a smile almost immediately returns.  Myungjun hits the table lightly, “It’s kismet then!”

Jinwoo starts to respond, but his pager goes off, causing him to jump as it buzzes against the plastic table top.  He scoops it up, offering an apologetic smile to Myungjun as he retrieves his cake and coffee.  He briefly considers asking to have it all boxed up so that he can ditch Myungjun.  He quickly abandons that train of thought when he glances back at his table where Myungjun is watching him with an expectant expression.

Jinwoo takes his coffee and cheesecake, returning to the table with a steady grip on his tray.

Myungjun peers at Jinwoo’s small selection of food items.  He hums and comments, “A man of classic taste, I see.”

Jinwoo takes a sip of his coffee, sucking in air through his teeth to cool off his tongue.  He shrugs and braces his arms against the table. He wonders if Myungjun will wander away when his order is ready.

“I am glad that I ran into you because your photos turned out quite nicely.  I am almost positive that Mr. Kang will include you in the promotional materials.”  Myungjun pulls out his phone and extends it toward Jinwoo, “Give me your number, so I can send them to you.  I’m sure that I can talk Mr. Kang into utilizing your favorite.”

Jinwoo stares at the phone. 

Myungjun cannot be serious. 

Yet, he continues to hold out his phone as Jinwoo cycles through all of the possible meanings that could be motivating the request.  Myungjun sets the phone on the table and slides it toward Jinwoo once his pager goes off.

Jinwoo is still staring at the phone when Myungjun comes back with a lot of packaged food in tow.  Jinwoo cocks his head to the side and looks at Myungjun, asking, “Why do you want my number?” 

Myungjun chuckles, “I’m not going to do anything nefarious with your number.  I just want to send you your pictures.” 

Jinwoo swallows roughly and quickly adds his number into Myungjun’s phone despite his own reservations about giving Myungjun a small amount of access to his information.  He gently hands Myungjun’s phone back to him, which elicits a delighted chirp.  “Well, _Park Jinwoo_ , I’ll be in touch soon.  I would love to eat with you, but I have a delivery to make.  Have a good night.” 

“Good night,” Jinwoo softly replies as Myungjun exits the bakery.  He takes a bite of his cheesecake, unsure of which feelings are mixing in his stomach and if they are a net-positive.  Perhaps he has lost his ability to properly read social cues because he is not sure if Myungjun wants to be his friend or if he is flirting or if he is merely an exceptionally polite person.

Jinwoo downs his coffee, which actually isn’t awful.  It is a pleasant surprise, and he might consider returning to this chain, maybe even this particular location, in the future. 

He returns to his apartment, taking much less time to enjoy the walk in the cold air back.  His cheeks feel especially warm when he enters his apartment, blood finally circulating properly again. 

The day’s exhaustion settles into Jinwoo’s bones.  Despite the fresh coffee still in his veins, Jinwoo is ready to collapse onto his bed and sleep for a long time. He manages to complete his necessary wind down tasks, brushing his teeth, washing his face, and turning off all the lights.

He sinks into his bed, clumsily connecting his phone to its charger on his nightstand.  As he is drifting off to sleep, his phone vibrates, lighting up with an unknown number on the screen.

 

_It’s Kim Myungjun! :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! this was going to be posted sooner, but technical difficulties arose.  
>  
> 
> _i suppose now is a good time to say that i'm focusing on Jinwoo's life, not just on his relationship with Myungjun. Other members of astro will be introduced i promise._  
>   
> 
> my [tumblr](http://yehetno.tumblr.com) is great place to ask me any questions you have (and watch me & vonseal have beef). pls talk to me, i'm lonely.
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark, subscribe if any of these would make you happy.


	3. aching lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dongmin thinks it would be a good idea to join a running club, and it isn't the worst idea that Dongmin has ever had.

Unexpectedly, Jinwoo rouses to the smell of eggs frying in the kitchen.  For a split second, confusion gets the best of him, and he thinks that someone has broken into his apartment to make themselves breakfast.  It takes roughly three seconds for rationality to correct his thoughts, and he finds himself eternally regretting that Lee Dongmin has a key to his apartment.  He almost never uses it for the emergent purposes for which Jinwoo gave it to him.

He rolls out of bed and yanks the first pair of pants that he can find of its hanger.  He groans internally, sliding into his relatively tight-fitting jeans, hopping a few times with his thumbs in the belt loops to get them to sit on hips right.  He shuffles over to his dresser, pulling out an oversized sweater and shrugging it on.

He swipes his phone off of its charger and pads out of his room to join Dongmin in the kitchen.

He sees a vase on his counter with a handful of freshly cut sunflowers; he groans internally.  Of course, Dongmin wants to “brighten up” his apartment. If Dongmin has the chance, he complains about his home décor.  It’s too Spartan and cold; there isn’t enough color; and it hardly looks lived in.  Whenever Dongmin comes, Jinwoo suddenly owns a new bright blanket or has a bouquet of flowers.

He strides forward, looking over Dongmin’s shoulder to inspect what is in the pan.  He reaches forward and nabs a strawberry out of a bowl sitting to the left of the stovetop, leaning against the lip of the counter as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of the strawberry.

He sees eggs in one pan and sausage frying in another.  Dongmin ignores him, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon.  He makes note of the rice cooker; Dongmin either made some fresh rice or opted to make porridge in it.  He can smell breadcrumbs burning in his toaster; apparently, toast is on the menu today. 

“What time did you get here?” Jinwoo asks after he swallows down his strawberry.

Dongmin knocks the egg sticking to spoon off by hitting the handle against the edge of the pan and pokes the spoon at the sausage for a moment before answering, “About an hour ago.” 

“How was dinner?”

Dongmin shifts between his feet, chewing his lower lip in thought.  He scrunches his nose and pulls the corners of his lip into a smile, “I would’ve rather eaten with you.  What did you get up to last night?  I managed to get most of the way into making breakfast before you got out here.”

Jinwoo takes a breath, wondering how he should describe last night. He considers lying; Dongmin is innately trusting and will likely believe him if he glosses over the bit where he met Myungjun and then ran into him on the same day.  However, maybe, _just maybe_ , there is a slight chance that, if he tells the truth, Dongmin will give him a good, firm clap on the shoulder and tell him he is doing well.

Apparently, he takes too long mulling over the thought, and Dongmin snaps his fingers in front of Jinwoo’s face, “What’s on your mind?”

Jinwoo shakes his head and blows the air out of his lungs.  He shrugs, “Last night.”

Dongmin turns off the burners on the stove and places his hands on his hips, “Alright, so back to my original question, what did you get up to last night?”

“I-I,” Jinwoo stammers, “I had coffee with a friend.”

It seems like a happy medium.  It isn’t a lie, so that won’t sit on his conscience.  He hopes that his vague statement will tide Dongmin over.

Unfortunately yet predictably, Dongmin gets a look in his eye, a shiny little glint.  He shifts his stance and repeats, “A friend?”

Jinwoo revises himself, “Well, he’s more of an acquaintance really.”

Dongmin starts moving food onto plates and casually asks, “Who?”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

Dongmin pauses and looks at Jinwoo suspiciously, “You have an acquaintance-friend that I don’t know?”

Jinwoo starts to bus the various dishes to his kitchen table, feeling anxiousness wracking through his body.  “I just met him.”

“When?” Dongmin begins to interrogate.

Jinwoo scoffs.  Dongmin thinks he is lying.  Despite understanding Dongmin’s mistrust, he cannot help but feel mildly offended.  He clears his throat, “Yesterday while I was volunteering.  He knows Mr. Kang for whatever reason.  I ran into him last night at some coffee shop after _you_ bailed on dinner.”

Dongmin purses his lips; there is a brief but familiar tension.  He looks down and licks his lips; when Dongmin lift his face back up, his expression resets, “Let’s eat!” 

Jinwoo lets it slide; he knows that it comes from a place of concern, but it quickly becomes suffocating when Dongmin invades his personal space too much.

They seat themselves at the table and quietly dole portions of food onto their plates.  Dongmin helps himself to some porridge; Jinwoo can tell by the slight dimple between his brows that Dongmin is turning over thoughts in his head, fine-tuning them to tiptoe around Jinwoo’s volatility.  He and Dongmin fall into a comfortable silence; there are too many years and mistakes between them to feel awkward with quietness.  Dongmin has adjusted to the changes in Jinwoo’s behaviors and general outlook; Jinwoo feels a sense of relief whenever Dongmin expresses impatience or butts heads with him.  He knows Jinwoo could do better, exercise more tact, and use his manners.  He doesn’t seem to _wish_ that time could roll back and that Jinwoo had never been injured.  Dongmin copes with the new normal much better than Jinwoo does.

Cracking the knuckles in his left hand, Dongmin sighs, “Did you have a good time?”

“It was a neutral time,” Jinwoo replies, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

Dongmin purses his lips and nods, “I don’t see why you feel the need to withhold information from me…”

“There is no more information to share,” Jinwoo replies with a small lie, the tiniest fib.  He has too much to figure out about Myungjun and his related feelings to start divulging anything to Dongmin.

“Are you doing anything this evening?” Dongmin pivots away from Myungjun with a light and distanced air in his voice.

Now, it is Jinwoo’s turn to be suspicious, “Eating dinner…?”

“Any plans?”

Jinwoo’s lips press into a firm line, “No, I don’t have any plans this evening, Dongmin.”

“Swell!” Dongmin explains, spearing a sausage with a fork, “I’ve signed us up for a running club and it is meeting this evening.”

“Us?”

“Well, my coworker was talking to me about how he keeps in shape.  He said that he is part of a group of runners that meets in the evening, and they jog on a planned route for an hour or so.”  Dongmin says, completely ignoring the resistance and offense in Jinwoo’s voice.  “And you’ve always talked about wanting to run a marathon.  So, I asked him for the meetup location.”

Jinwoo exhales in frustration, “A running club?” 

“The air will be good for you.”

Jinwoo shakes his head, “I don’t—what if, I don’t know, something _happens_?”

“Jinwoo, your heart and lungs are 100% yours, and your left leg is still perfectly capable of cramping up on you,” he says, killing Jinwoo’s doubts.  “And, unless you want to say something, no one will know.”

“A running club?” Jinwoo says in exasperation. 

“You meet up with people and run.”

“Like, we’re meeting up with little old ladies in visors?”

Dongmin snorts and shakes his head with a light laugh, “No, Jinwoo, they won’t be in visors.  It’s nighttime running club; they’ll be wearing fluorescent clothes.”

 

//

 

It has been a while; Jinwoo rummages through his closet, unearthing his running shoes and shorts.  He sits on his knees in front of the boxed away clothes, recalling a time when he thought he would never walk again, let alone run.  The adjustment period was hard, and he pushed away a lot of things. 

He pulls out his light gray jacket, the water-resistant fabric crinkling as he sets it down.  He chooses a long-sleeved, moisture-wicking tee and a random pair of shorts.  He runs his right hand over his jaw, letting his fingers catch on his scruff.  A paralyzing fear overcomes him; hypotheticals speed through his mind and twist his gut.  He faces the duality of rejection and failure. 

A calming thought surfaces; he cannot fail because it is just a club.  It is a group of people following their passion in their free time.  He will not fail.

He places a hand over his heart and feels his slowing pulse under his fingertips.  This could be good for him; no, this will be good for him.

He starts to dress himself, first slipping into his shorts and looking at himself in the mirror.  The muscles on his prosthetic are slightly larger than his other leg. It is hardly noticeable, but it goes to show how disuse has atrophied his leg.  There is no difference in skin tone, and the hair density is spot on.  Dongmin is right, no one needs to know unless he wants them to know.  He does not know when he will start being open about it, but he knows that it is not tonight.

Pulling the shirt over his head and slipping into the jacket, Jinwoo looks the part.  He laces up his shoes and stares at himself for a moment longer.  The color palette is brighter than his current wardrobe, but it is unclear whether that is because athletic wear is always obnoxiously bright or because Jinwoo has changed.  He zips the jacket up to his chin and gives himself an encouraging nod.

He swipes his water bottle off of the counter and picks up his keys.  Locking up his apartment, Jinwoo walks down the hall and playfully knocks on Dongmin’s door.  He feels good; he could almost laugh at himself for the third time in two days, he finds himself in a good mood.  The tide is turning it seems.

Dongmin opens the door with a proud smile in a set of completely new clothes.

“Tell me you did not buy a completely new set of clothes just for this,” Jinwoo sighs.

Dongmin pats his cheek, “If I did, that would be a lie.  Let’s go!”

They take Dongmin’s car.  Dongmin drums his fingers on the steering wheel, vocalizing and humming along to the songs that float from the radio.  Jinwoo looks out the window, noting his new favorite coffee place as they make their way to the meeting point.

Dongmin pulls into a parking lot near a large park, and the clock gives them ten minutes until the official running begins at seven.

He follows Dongmin to a large group of people; Dongmin gets on his toes, craning his neck.  It clicks for Jinwoo; Dongmin is looking for his coworker, eagerly at that.  Dongmin freezes and hits Jinwoo’s chest, “Found him! Let’s go say hi.”

Jinwoo tries to protest, but Dongmin bracelets his wrist with his fingers and drags him over to a chatting duo.

“Moon Bin!” Dongmin exclaims, waving with vigor once they’re in earshot.

A man, presumably Moon Bin, responds with a broad smile and a wave of his own.  They stop a few feet short of Moon Bin, giving space to his stretching friend, who reaches for his toes with locked knees.  

“You came!” Bin joyously greets them.

Dongmin puffs his chest out with pride, “Indeed we did; Bin, this is my Jinwoo.  Jinwoo, this is my coworker Bin.”

The second runner snaps up once hearing Jinwoo’s name.  Jinwoo reaches out to shake Bin’s extended hand, eyes sliding over to Bin’s friend.  Their eyes connect and Jinwoo’s heart stops.

A delighted smile spreads across Kim Myungjun’s beautiful face.  Before Bin can introduce Myungjun to Dongmin, Myungjun places his hands on his hips and says, “Hello, hello, Park Jinwoo.”

A look of embarrassment washes over Bin’s face, “Myungjun—“

“How have you been since yesterday?  Did you get my text message?” Myungjun carries on.

Dongmin raises an eyebrow, “Jinwoo, do you know—Myungjun was it?”

Jinwoo nods, “We’re acquainted.”

Dongmin mouths ‘acquainted’ with a puzzled look, so Jinwoo carries on with responding to Myungjun.  “I’ve been well.  I got your text while I was asleep; I’m really bad about responding to text messages, so I’m sorry.”

Myungjun’s jaw drops playfully, lightly clapping a hand on Jinwoo’s right shoulder, “Great. Let me tell you, Mr. Park Jinwoo, I think the universe _really_ wants us to be friends.  Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern.”

It clicks for Dongmin as he loudly says, “Oh!”

It catches everyone’s attention, leaving Dongmin awkwardly standing there under a communally questioning gaze.  He clears his throat and says, “We should stretch before things get started, right?”

Bin stands with his legs apart, gripping one hip and leaning into it with one arm straightened over his head.  Dongmin throws his arm across his chest and pushes his elbow toward his other shoulder.   Bin and Dongmin devolve into a light discussion of deadlines at work, tossing around unfamiliar names with ease and losing Jinwoo in the process.

Jinwoo tunes them out as he grabs his left ankle and pulls it toward his glutes, feeling a familiar tight stretch. He finds himself watching Myungjun stretch his arms over his head, the hem of his shirt pulling up to reveal a tiny sliver of his pale stomach.  Jinwoo diverts his gaze to the grass, trying to beat back the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“You know,” Myungjun starts.  (Jinwoo gets the feelings that Myungjun is not one for comfortable silences.)  “I didn’t take you for a runner.” 

His brows pull together in confusion, “What did you take me for then?”

Myungjun bites his lower lip softly and lets his arms fall to his side.  He tilts his head and examines Jinwoo with intelligent eyes. “I’m not sure,” he softly admits.  “I’m still trying to figure you out.”

Jinwoo switches legs to keep up appearances and takes a quick breath to calm his pulse.  Myungjun throws a wrench in his calm and it has only been two days.  He swallows the lump in his throat and replies, “Why are you trying to figure me out?”

Myungjun graces him with another smile as Myungjun mimics Jinwoo’s stretch. “Why not?”

“W-w-we don’t know each other,” Jinwoo stutters.

“Everyone starts not knowing each other.” Myungjun leans in closer, “Have you considered that maybe I want to get to know you?”

Jinwoo backs away slightly, dropping his foot back onto the ground, “Why would you want that?” 

Myungjun inhales, plump lips parting to tell a secret with a restrained smile.

A whistle blows, and it saves Jinwoo the embarrassment of getting wrapped up and tangled in Myungjun.  His heart gallops despite standing still.  He pivots away from Myungjun to look at the whistle blower, a young woman stands on a bench with a bullhorn and a clipboard, “We’ll be sticking to paved sidewalks today; please remain on guard for any sticks or rocks on the path and move them out of the way for your fellow runners.  Let’s get going!”

The group starts out at a slow pace, easing into the long jog, moving at a walking pace for short while.  Myungjun decides to match stride with Jinwoo, a teasing smile resting on his lips.

Jinwoo starts to pick up speed, and Myungjun keeps up with him closely.  It only takes a few moments for his lungs to start pulling in more air, and a few minutes for his panting to become audible.  His muscles start aching, and Jinwoo feels the familiar desire to take a seat and drink too much water.  He laughs to himself with the knowledge that he only needs to push through. 

“You’re… good at this,” Myungjun offers as a compliment through his own soft panting.

Jinwoo laughs, sides aching, “Thank you?  I think?" 

“You’re welcome,” Myungjun whispers.  “I mean… we definitely lost… Bin and Dongmin.”

Jinwoo glances behind him and snorts, “Maybe, they lost us.”

It elicits a cackle from Myungjun.

They jog together until they come full circle where a myriad of joggers rest, strewn about the lawn, gulping down sports drinks and water.  Jinwoo takes a seat on a gentle slope, picking up his water bottle and taking a large gulp as his aching lungs pull in as much oxygen as possible.  Myungjun sinks down next to him, “So, Park Jinwoo makes a fantastic runner.  Another thing that I’m adding to my list.”

“I was training for a marathon,” Jinwoo tells Myungjun, unsure of what compelled him to tell Myungjun.  He thinks he might be trying to make a friend; the feeling is foreign now, like the rusty cogs of a once-broken clock that has finally been repaired and are beginning to resume their duty.

“What made you stop?” Myungjun asks tentatively in a quiet voice, as though he knows that there is a before-and-after for Jinwoo.

He decides he is not ready to face a venomous Myungjun, not yet.  Jinwoo shakes his head and shrugs, “Life.”

Myungjun sips from his bottle and leans back, “I think we’re becoming friends, Mr. Park Jinwoo.  Don’t you?”

Jinwoo turns his water bottle in hands, mulling over the offer of friendship from someone who didn’t exist a week ago.  “A fourth time.”

Myungjun sits up and looks at Jinwoo, an eyebrow raised with a half-smile on his mouth, “A fourth time?”

Jinwoo clears his throat and looks at Myungjun, “Right now, you and I, we’re acquaintances.  Friends of friends.  If we meet a fourth time out of sheer _dumb_ luck, then we can be friends.”

Myungjun lies down and laughs to himself, “Oh, Park Jinwoo, what if I can’t wait for a fourth time to come around?”

“Too bad,” Jinwoo says, turning his face away from Myungjun to hide his smile.

He sees Dongmin and Bin coming down the pike; Dongmin looks absolutely beaten and Bin seems like this has been one of the easiest runs of his life.

It takes Dongmin twenty minutes to return to normal breathing, complaining the whole way through, stealing water from both Bin and Jinwoo, rambling on about cramp prevention.  As they make their way back to Dongmin’s car, he complains, “My calves are tight, and I’m so glad I don’t work tomorrow because I will likely be immobile.  Will you come take care of me tomorrow?”

Jinwoo nods, smiling fondly at Dongmin.  “I’ll drive.”

“Blessed be your soul.”

They climb into the car, and Dongmin finally gets around to asking Jinwoo a question.  “Did you like running club?”

Jinwoo turns the key in the ignition and the car hums to life.  Jinwoo chews on the thought, “Yeah, I did.”

“Myungjun is quite a character, isn’t he?”  Dongmin grumbles, buckling in his seatbelt.

Jinwoo nods, listening to Dongmin’s various complaints all the way home, unable to shake the fourth return of good feelings in two days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi, it's my return. it's been a little under two weeks since my last post & i'm sorry. my computer was under repair from dec31 to jan9, so i could not write.
> 
> i hope you're enjoying the story!! thank you so much for taking the time to read. comment/kudos/bookmark/subscribe if you'd like.  
> follow me on [tumblr](http://yehetno.tumblr.com) if you want to hear my struggles and send me words of encouragement.  
> thanks!!


	4. smart luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experiencing rain isn't the same anymore, but it is a season for change. 
> 
> (It is officially official Park Jinwoo is Kim Myungjun's friend.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a little over 3 weeks & i'm sorry about that. this chapter is also shorter than the previous ones, BUT i felt that adding something just for length would detract from this chapter. so, thank you for still being here & enjoy :)

Rain furiously bounces off the roof of his car as his windshield wipers clear the rivulets of water with a dull clicking sound.  Jinwoo wishes he wasn’t driving; the combination of rain sounds and windshield wipers don’t hold the same calming comfort they did when he was a child in the backseat of his mother's car, watching raindrops race one another across the window.

Jinwoo massages his forehead; he turns on the radio, keeping the volume low.  He regrets not checking the forecast before deciding to shop for groceries.  He hates darting through the rain without any protection.  Despite volumes of information and first-hand experience, he never feels quite comfortable in the rain anymore.  Gone are the days of dancing in the rain, not that he often danced in the rain.  He supposes a more accurate lamentation would dwell on long walks in the rain and deliberately walking through puddles and returning home a damp, dripping mess.

He almost cowers in the rain, especially when he isn’t armed with an umbrella and rain boots.  He has a nagging fear that somehow a wayward raindrop will make it through his clothes and seep in through a nonexistent scar in his synthetic skin, causing a limb to glitch or break.  The escalations of fear lead him to a worst-case scenario which results in his death, and after managing to escape the jaws of death once, Jinwoo is not keen to expose himself to any risk.

Jinwoo briefly considers turning the car around and returning to his apartment _just_ to retrieve an umbrella and feel the false sense of security it will bring to him. However, when the light changes, Jinwoo makes no attempt to change lanes; he goes right along with his planned route until he sees his turn and takes it.  

He pulls into the first free parking space he sees.  He kills the engine and sits in his seat for a moment with his hands still holding the steering wheel.  He takes a few steadying breaths, thinking about the yardage between his car and the entrance to the grocery store.  He knows that missing the ease of normalcy, of not having delicate machinery intimately connected to his insides, is futile and, ultimately, more harmful than helpful.  He just—he never had to think about his interactions with sales associates and cashiers ten steps in advance back then.  Now, he carries with him a paralyzing fear that his technological aids will malfunction and leave him exposed to the scorn and spite of several shoppers. The worst thing that he can imagine is breaking down in public, emotionally and literally.

He picks up his reusable bags from the passenger seat and does a cursory examination of his clothes.  Nothing jumps out at him, so he resolves to get out of the car and walk _quickly_ to the automated doors.

He hops out of the car, restraining himself from wincing.  He slams the door shut and starts zipping across the parking lot toward the entrance, haphazardly locking his car from its remote and confirming its safety with his ears only.  He stops in the vestibule between sets of automated sliding doors to shake off the raindrops that still cling to his jacket.  He grabs a cart and tosses his bags into it haphazardly. 

The tension floats off of his shoulders; he knows he can manage it from here.  His temporary journey down the aisles of the store will not stress him.  Yes, stressful situations bookend this trip, but having control over this small piece of his journey comforts him.

He leans against the cart with his forearms as he navigates his way toward packaged food.  Few people, if any, bother to glance up from their own preoccupations to mentally disparage Jinwoo’s lack of posture.  He fishes his phone out of his pocket to find the list he created over the week.

He finds himself standing at the midpoint of the condiment aisle, squinting at his phone screen, wondering what item he misspelled so egregiously that his phone autocorrected it to “silhouette”.

“Silhouette?”

Jinwoo jumps, nearly dropping the phone in the process.  He clutches his heart and tries to catch his stolen breath.  He glares at Myungjun, who doesn’t seem to notice the violation of space or the surprise that violation nearly caused Jinwoo to have a heart attack.  He does, however, feel an odd sense of relief that of all people to shock him it happens to be Kim Myungjun.

Jinwoo swallows thickly, finding himself reprimanding Myungjun, “You should greet someone before reading their grocery list over their shoulder.”

“I waved,” Myungjun shrugs.

Jinwoo pinches the bridge of his nose, “I clearly showed no indication that I saw you wave at me.”

Myungjun smiles at Jinwoo, but Jinwoo can’t quite read into the thoughts behind it.  He can make a few guesses with his own personal bias peeking through, sowing seeds of hope in the back of his mind, but at this point, Myungjun puzzles him slightly.  He waits for Myungjun to say something to address the specifics of what prompted such a wide smile, but Myungjun waits with a goofy grin.

“What?” Jinwoo asks with an edge of worry in his voice, hoping that there isn’t some social misstep that he made in Myungjun’s presence.

Myungjun bites his lower lip, almost smiling to himself before holding up one hand with four fingers proudly displayed in front of Jinwoo’s nose.

“Four?” Jinwoo tries to process it, wondering what on earth its significance might be.  Why would such an unlucky number make Myungjun giggle like a five-year-old holding onto a trivial secret?

Myungjun seems disappointed that Jinwoo does not instantly understand the meaning behind it.  His face falls, and he lets his hand fall aside.  “I can officially call you my friend,” Myungjun reminds him gently, the softness in his voice seeming to stem from a place of uncertainty. 

Oh.  Jinwoo cannot believe himself, especially since he had spent a night or two wondering how their next meeting might go.  (It was a weird feeling to have hope again and to have confidence that they would cross paths again at random.)

“Ha!” Myungjun exclaims, pointing a finger at Jinwoo, recognizing that the number clicked into place.  “I’m so happy that I didn’t have to figure out a way to run into you.”

Jinwoo frowns, although his lip almost immediately wants to twitch into a shy smile.  He admires Myungjun’s tenacity, and he knows that, eventually, he would have yielded to Myungjun’s instance.  He crosses his arms and sighs, “I believe I said it had to be dumb luck, did I not?” 

Myungjun snorts, swatting away Jinwoo’s statement with a dismissive hand, “Don’t be ridiculous; who needs luck to be dumb?  I vastly prefer smart luck.  It knows what it is doing.”

“How do I know that this is a coincidence?”

Myungjun snaps his feet together and holds up his hand to testify, “I didn’t know you would be here, Scout’s honor.”

Despite trying his best efforts to suppress it, a smile works its way onto his face.  “How do I know you were a Scout?”

Myungjun loosens his posture and bats his eyelashes at Jinwoo sweetly, “Would I lie to you?”

Jinwoo exhales and extends his hand out to Myungjun, almost disappointed that it has to be his left hand.  Jinwoo would revel in all of the sensory information that he might be able to effectively intuit from genuine skin-to-skin contact.  Myungjun grips it enthusiastically and shakes his hand with a triumphant smile on his face, “Hello, friend.”

“Hi, Myungjun.”

Myungjun maintains eye contact as he softly murmurs, “Jinwoo.”

Myungjun lets go of his hand hesitantly.  He clears his throat, “So, um, _Jinwoo_.”  (Jinwoo cannot help but savor the delight in Myungjun’s voice when he says Jinwoo’s name.  He says it with such warmth and richness, and Myungjun holds it with undue reverence.)  Myungjun clasps his hands behind his back, “You still haven’t selected a photo for me to give to Mr. Kang.”

“Oh,” Jinwoo mutters.  Honestly, he does not think that his photo should be used in promotional materials at all.  It isn’t as though Myungjun’s photos are bad, far from it.  Myungjun seems to be a skilled photographer, and compared to some of his other pictures, Jinwoo looks rather nice in Myungjun’s photos.  However, there is an inescapable sullenness radiating from him in them, and he feels like it might be more detrimental than helpful to include him in the booklet.  It would probably look like Jinwoo had been held hostage and forced to take artsy photos at the community garden.

Jinwoo shakes his head and tries to gulp down his shame at being unhelpful, “You can just choose your favorite.  None of them really jump out at me.”

Myungjun clicks his tongue, “Oh, that’ll be hard.  I don’t think I can choose a favorite.  I love all of them.  You, sir, are very photogenic.”

Jinwoo blushes, letting out a breathy laugh, “Oh, you don’t need to lie.”

“I cannot help it if you are beautiful,” Myungjun says with a charming smile creeping onto his face.

“I—” Jinwoo sputters, trying to recollect his thoughts and arrange words in a comprehensible manner.  “I—I—I need to shop for groceries.  I have to eat.” 

Myungjun nods, “Makes sense, seeing as this is the local _supermarché._ ”  Myungjun’s brow furrows as he looks at the Jinwoo’s cart.  Jinwoo hopes that Myungjun doesn’t think he has bad eating habits.  He has _some_ vegetables in his basket.

Myungjun looks at him, “Do you not have an umbrella?”

Jinwoo scratches the back of his head and awkwardly laugh it off, “I left at just the wrong time and didn’t think to check today’s forecast… So, no.”

Unceremoniously, Myungjun shoves a compact travel umbrella into Jinwoo’s hands, “Here.  I have my jacket.”

“But how will I—”

Myungjun presses his forefinger against Jinwoo’s lip, “Hush, it’s a great excuse to meet up with you again.  Stay dry, you beautiful human you.”

“Are you going somewhere?” Jinwoo inquires as Myungjun zips his jacket all the way up to his chin and pulls his hood over his head.

With a small and a knowing laugh, Myungjun pats Jinwoo’s shoulder, “If I stayed and shopped with you, you would be _much_ too distracted.”

And just like that, Myungjun zooms down the aisle, waving behind him without checking to see if Jinwoo is watching; it is as though he knows that Jinwoo can never take his eyes off of Myungjun.

Jinwoo roams the aisles of the grocery store, plucking items off of the shelves, heart sputtering every time his eye catches sight of the umbrella in his cart.  He can hardly believe it; whether the umbrella was a gift of randomness or intuition, it touches his soul in an unexpected way.  Jinwoo must be out of practice, or maybe, the notion of having someone passionately interested in him is wholly new.  Myungjun is a unique case if Jinwoo had ever met one.

He goes through his practiced lines with the cashier while checking out, thanking the heavens that the young man seems disinterested in delving past the superficial social script.  Jinwoo bunches up all of his grocery bags in one hand and takes his time walking back his car under the safety of Myungjun’s umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*four is considered an unlucky number in sk & in countries that derive their speaking language from chinese b/c 'four' has a similar (or same depending on the lang) pronunciation to 'death'; look into tetraphobia if you're dying to know more.) (**seitan-->silhouette)
> 
> i will once again link to my [tumblr](http://yehetno.tumblr.com) bc that is really the only place that i can effectively respond to questions/concerns.
> 
>  **i'm going to try to update this fic every other week at a minimum.** in case anyone is truly invested in this fic.  
>  alright, so, drop a comment (it would delight me) kudos/bookmark/subscribe if any of those seem appealing, and thank you for reading.


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